Right Now
by ArsenicAngel
Summary: 24 hours of life after Junior Prom. Dave's 1st POV. Warnings for strong language and underage drinking.


**Disclaimer:** I do not own or claim to own any aspects of Glee, and make no money off writing this fic.

Bold & centered lines between the break lines are text messages; those that are also italicized are coming from Dave.

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><p><em>"Come out. Make a difference."<em>

He makes it sound so easy when he says it like that. As though all I have to do is take his hand and start dancing, and everything would just come together. I'd almost think he forgets, sometimes, how hard it is for everyone around you to _know_.

But then, I doubt the hell Azimio and I put him through was something easy to forget. We might not have been the only ones, but we were definitely the worst. Well, _I_was the worst.

Azimio has some legitimate issues; but me? I was taking out all of my own self-hatred on Kurt. I'd say that's worse, in the long run. Somehow, it made sense at the time. Like, if I could frighten or intimidate or slushie the gay out of him, then maybe there was hope for it to work for me, too. Stupid, obviously.

Somehow, despite all of that- and even this cruel joke of making him Prom Queen- he's still fucking optimistic. Everything is still simple to him, like all it takes is one person to stand up and refuse to take it, and all the hatred would stop. I wish it were that easy for me, I really do.

I wish I could live in that reality.

Instead, I live in this one. The one where I ran out on what could have been the best moment of my Junior Prom because I'm a coward. A coward who hides in bathroom stalls, at that.

"Karofsky?"

_Shit._

I didn't even hear the door open. Shows how fucking lost I am. I aim my foot at the stall door, sending it swinging outward since I never bothered closing the latch. Not like I expected anyone to follow me.

"Shouldn't you be dancing, Fancy?"

Kurt peeks around the side of the stall, that damn crown still sitting skewed at an angle on top of his head. He flings his hand out to catch the door as it starts to slowly swing back inward, and then he's standing in front of me with _that look_. The one that's full of pity and understanding all at once, and it's all I can do to keep from breaking down.

I don't like feeling this helpless.

"'Dancing Queen' really isn't my song," Kurt says, and from the corner of my eye, I see one side of his mouth twitch into a smile that could be either nervous or just awkward. I can't tell which it is.

"Not mine either," I mutter, hoping that some hint of amusement edges into my voice. From the expression on Kurt's face, it likely came out bitter instead. "I'm sorry..."

"For what?" I shrug hopelessly, and Kurt huffs, shaking his head. "Come on, Karofsky." He pushes the stall door wide open again and steps back, gesturing for me to follow him.

"What?"

Kurt rolls his eyes and holds the door open with his foot. He grasps my arm tightly and pulls, and I stand more out of surprise than anything. Once I'm on my feet, though, Kurt drops his hand, and I'm careful not to let the flicker of disappointment I feel at that show on my face.

"Come on," he repeats. "I'm not leaving you to sit and mope away your problems in a bathroom stall." Kurt's back is turned to me as he speaks, his hand waving me after him as he strides away toward the bathroom door. I only hesitate a moment before I'm taking off after him. I nearly walk straight into him on the other side of the door, and can't help glancing anxiously around the hall. After all this time hiding it, the last thing I need outing me is a rumor about Kurt and me getting it on in one of the bathrooms.

"There's no one out here," Kurt says, likely guessing my thoughts from my expression. He's walking again before I can think to ask him what he's thinking or where we're going. I'd like to say that I followed him so readily because he was walking _away_from the gymnasium. But really, I followed because it was Kurt. I trust him.

It's not until he's pushing open the door into the parking lot that I think maybe I should say something after all. Not too many people had filtered out into the lot just yet, but enough for me to pick out shapes hovering around cars here and there. Not that I'm against being seen with Kurt at all, but after everything inside, I can't imagine being noticed going well for either of us.

"Hey, Fancy!... _Kurt_!" He finally stops once I say his name, and waits for me to catch up to him again. "Where are we going?" My eyes dart over the lot nervously, and to my surprise, Kurt lays his hand briefly against my arm to draw my attention back to him.

"You don't need to be alone, and I don't really want to stay in there anymore as it is." Kurt shrugs and drops his hand to duck off in the direction of the track. "I thought a walk might be good for us both." He hesitates for a second, looking at me as though he's not sure whether I'll follow him or not. When I finally take a step forward, though, he seems to relax slightly.

"Probably right..."

The silence is awkward while we walk toward the empty track, and Kurt's arms wrap around himself when a breeze drifts past us. I nearly take off the jacket of tuxedo until I remember it would probably swallow him.

"What are you going to do now?"

His question catches me by surprise, and my shoes scuff loudly off the asphalt before I catch myself nearly tripping over my own feet for not paying attention. "About what?"

"The school-" Kurt waves his hand dismissively behind us at the building, and then flourishes in the direction of the parking lot to one side. "All of that nonesense." He folds his arms over his chest again, keeping his eyes focused straight ahead as we ducked through the fences around the track. "If you aren't ready to come out to anyone yet, then what will you do when the rumors start?"

Maybe he isn't as out of touch with reality as I thought.

"Don't know," I answer simply, stuffing my hands into the pockets of my pants. "I hadn't thought about it." I'm lying and I can tell Kurt knows it from the way he shakes his head. "I _don't know_how to deal with this, Kurt..."

"You should stop thinking about everyone else, then." Kurt's arms drop to his sides as he walks now that there is no more breeze. "If all you think about is what everyone else will think, or what they'll do, then you're never going to come to terms with yourself, David."

He glances at me from the corner of his eye when he says my name. It's _strange_, hearing it said like that, when I've been 'Karofsky' to him for so long. Still, it manages to make me smile, if only for a moment.

"How can I not think about it?" Somehow, we'd started to circle the track slowly as we talked, and I stop beside one of the football goals. "What will the team think of me when they find out? You know how they are, Kurt."

"Yeah," Kurt agrees, backtracking a few steps to stand beside me. "But maybe you're what they need to see to realize it's not something to hate or be afraid of."

And just when I think he has some understanding of reality, that ever-present optimism rears its head again.

"It's not that easy, Kurt!" My voice is strained, and I'm amazed that Kurt recognizes my tone for what it is and lays his hand on the back of my shoulder when I turn away from him.

"I know it isn't," he says softly. "But it _will _get easier, if you give it time."

I know he's right, although that doesn't make it easier to accept. The understanding in his voice, however, makes all the difference. And, as though he senses the impact his words have had on me, Kurt steps around in front of me and hesitantly wraps his arms around me.

"It will be alright, David."

"Kurt?"

Just as quickly as he was there to comfort me, Kurt pulls away and spins around on his heels toward the voice. I don't bother. Instead, I swipe the heel of my palms across my eyes, ridding my face of the traces of my momentary weakness.

"There you are! I've been looking everywhere for y-" Buckboy's voice cuts off, and I can feel his eyes on my back before I turn. He's watching me with a wary expression that's too much for me to handle now. "Has he been bothering you?"

"What?" Kurt sounds startled by the question as he looks between me and him, shaking his head. "No, we were just-"

"It's fine," I interrupt, stuffing my hands into my pockets again as though it would help me hide my frustration. "Thanks, Kurt... for the talk..." Buckboy still looks disapproving while I duck my head and step around him. Kurt says my name, but I know better than to stop walking now.

I'm beyond trying to hurt him for his accusations, but after the night I've had, I'm not in a mood to listen to his self-righteous attitude. Especially when I've done nothing wrong- not that I think it makes much difference to him. Unlike Kurt, he has no interest in looking beyond who I've been in the past. I'm just a bully to him, no matter what my motivation or how much I think I've moved beyond at least some of that stupidity.

Whatever. It doesn't really matter anyway. Kurt at least sees me, well enough to know I needed someone to understand tonight. Even if the time was short- and even if I can't bring myself to really believe that things will just get better- it helped to have him there. Now, all I want to do is go home, maybe snag one of dad's beers from the back of the fridge if he's well stocked, and then lock myself in my room until Monday morning.

"David, man, wait up!"

_Fuck_.

It's like all of my karma has caught up with me at once, tonight. All I want to do is keep walking, but Azimio isn't the kind of guy you can just ignore like that. His hand claps down on my shoulder, and my choice becomes to either stop and turn or probably have him wrench my arm out of place accidentally when he tries to turn me himself.

"That was some shit in there, wasn't it? Hummel's face when Figgins announced his name for Queen was damn priceless, though. He-"

"Z." I don't want to listen to this. Not right now, not ever again.

"Yeah?"

"Shut up."

I know it surprises him because he lets go of my shoulder, but I'm not interested in dragging out this conversation or confrontation or whatever it is any longer than I need to. My keys are out of my pocket before he manages to shake himself out of his stupor, and by the time he's trying to gain my attention again, I've already slammed the door of my truck closed and turned over the engine.

He's smart enough to move out of the way once I make it clear that I'm backing up whether he's still standing there or not, but I have to admit, it almost could have been therapeutic to run over at least his foot. _Almost_.

Instead, I watch as Azimio jumps back from the truck, waving one hand at my rearview as though I just didn't realize he was still there. The best part about Kurt coaxing me out of that damn bathroom stall so fast is that there's no traffic for me to wade through to escape the parking lot. I'm out of there probably faster than I've ever managed, and once I hit the street, all I'm thinking of is getting home and safely locked in my room before the numbness breaks.

The last thing I want is for any of my family to see it happen, when I don't know if I could lie to them tonight. In the morning, I know it'll be so much easier, but right now? Not a chance. Not after all of this.

It's probably the only bright side of the night that I'm almost home before I know it. The lights are all off as I'm pulling into the drive, and I even make the effort to be somewhat quiet when I kick the door of my truck closed after getting out. The numbness has started to fade already, and by the time I'm dragging myself toward the fridge in the kitchen, I feel my hands start shaking.

"Thank you, dad!"

At least that's one thing in my favor tonight. I'm smiling for the first time since Kurt dragged me out to the football field as I pluck an ice cold beer from dad's full stash in the back. I grip it tighter than I should have to while I make my way toward my room, and I can feel the coldness slowly seeping into my fingers.

The bottle _thud_s softly against my computer desk, and I wipe my hand against my pants to warm my fingers before I start yanking off this damn tuxedo. More and more, I'm wishing I hadn't bothered renting it in the first place, but too late to go back on that one now. Disaster or not, tonight _was_my Junior Prom, and I should have gone.

But _damn_, this was some way to spend it.

The cap twists off the bottle without a fight, and before I realize it, I've chugged down half the bottle. "Shit," I mutter, and set the beer down on the desk. Not that I care too much about dragging it out, and one bottle usually wouldn't be enough to do much for me. But drinking too fast, when I've hardly eaten tonight? I'd rather not deal with the headache in the morning, or the vomiting tonight.

It's a good thing I'm not the cleanest of guys, because it only takes me a few seconds to find a half-eaten bag of Doritos, discarded next to the television and pinned closed beneath a 360 controller. They're a little stale, and Nacho flavor hardly goes well with beer to begin with, but it's better than nothing at all.

I empty the bag before I even think of reaching for the beer again, and my next sip is deliberately smaller than the first had been. I can already feel a headache coming on, but whether it's from the alcohol or the insanity that has been my night, I don't even know anymore. Likely, it's a combination of the two, and I should find something to help me wind down that doesn't involve raiding dad's beer stash again.

One bottle is easy to hide, but three or four? Much more difficult...

The flashing power light on the computer catches my eye, and I consider booting it out of sleep mode for a moment, before I remember there isn't much to do online tonight. Most of my 'friends' probably haven't left prom yet, and those that have aren't likely to be heading home to their computers. Most of them are headed to hotels or parent-free houses with a box of condoms and their own six-packs stashed in the trunks of their cars. I almost wish I was one of them tonight, at least for the distraction.

_Uhg._

Either I really did drink too fast, or the thought of that alone just turned my stomach. Whichever it is, I think I need something else to take my mind off things. The Xbox looks promising, but I doubt I have it in me to put up with some fourteen-year-old kid raging through my headset when he gets taken out right now. Although, Halo makes for some wonderful stress relief, so perhaps it wouldn't be all bad.

I go back and forth for a few more sips before I finally reach for the headset and tap the power button on the system. Even an annoying middle-school twerp going off in my ear is better than being left to my own thoughts right now. For a while, anyway...

My mind starts to wander only halfway through the second round of Slayer, and tied at fifteen kills is not a good time to lose my focus. I want to blame the alcohol for fucking up my focus, but there are only so many lies I can tell myself in a day. And once my concentration's gone, I'm finished.

Before the mocking can begin- fucking campers- I toss the headset down and kill the system again, and I'm right back to where I started. Only now, I'm definitely a little drunk. Stale Doritos are not quite as good for staving that off as I had hoped.

Damn it.

There's not much point in staying awake for much longer anyway. I've already drained the bottle, and short of raiding the kitchen, I'm not going to find anything else to eat and absorb the alcohol. So at this point, I'm stuck at tipsy and only likely to go downhill if I go anywhere. I could try killing time doing _something_online, but I don't think I'd find much to take the edge off that way, so it's probably still pointless. And my bed is starting to look pretty inviting.

I stuff the empty bottle into the bottom of my trash can, hiding it beneath everything else, just to be safe. The last thing I need is mom or dad noticing it in there and giving me hell about it. I doubt they'd do much more than yell, but I'd rather avoid it if at all possible. Especially since, knowing my luck and the fact I just got off their shit list for that expulsion thing, this would be the one time they figured yelling wasn't going to be enough.

The phrase 'last straw' comes to mind...

* * *

><p>Thank you, alcohol, for the good night's sleep.<p>

That's all I can really think for the first five minutes I'm awake, but the thought quickly turns into something more along the lines of: why did I drink that beer on an empty stomach? Or, better yet, why didn't I at least set an alarm so that I'd have time to eat breakfast before making a mad dash to the tuxedo rental shop to return that damned thing?

They should really offer a grace period on these stupid things, because even if you're sober, a deadline of noon hanging over your head on the morning after prom sucks. I'm sure most guys will just suffer the extra charge for dropping it off late, or con someone else into taking theirs in for them. But I can't afford the first, and don't have too many people I could ask to do the second.

Instead, I find myself hunched over the wheel of my truck at quarter-till, glaring at every red light I have to stop at like they're the ones responsible for my system processing that drink so badly. The only bright side that keeps me from saying fuck it to begin with is that since I'm already out, at least I could stop on the way home for something good to eat. Denny's, maybe...

Or just grab something from the gas station when I stop to fill the tank. Anyone who says gas station pizza sucks has never had it with a mild hangover. It's not exactly hot, since those heat lamps can only do so much for it through a small cardboard box, but _damn_, that shit is good. But that has to wait until I get this stupid thing dropped off. Speaking of...

Looks like I'm not the only one who didn't want to deal with an extra charge. There's at least six other cars in the lot when I pull in, and I catch sight of at least one more turning in just as I pull into the first empty space I find.

11:57. I am awesome.

The clerk smiles at me tensely when I lay the plastic garment bag on the counter. Judging by the stack of tuxes laid behind her with notes stuck to them- several sporting a few obvious stains- it's not hard to guess why, but she relaxes a little once she gives mine a once-over.

Okay, so the pounding headache and lack of food might suck for me, but at least I gave her one less hassle to deal with today. That counts for a silver lining, right? And it isn't all bad, since I still have the promise of gas station pizza to brighten my morning. Afternoon. Whatever.

That is, unless Z notices me.

"David, dude!" _Shit_. Not now, _please_. I don't want to do this now...

I ignore him while he pulls into the nearest open parking space, which is luckily a few cars down. I have time to get my truck door open before he's already jumping out of his, but _of course_I had the damn window down on the drive. Slamming the door closed doesn't exactly stop him from talking to me today.

"The fuck was last night all about, man?"

Silver lining? At least he doesn't look like he's about to deck me. Yet.

"Dunno what you mean," I mumble, fumbling to get my key into the ignition. Instead of accomplishing that, I fail spectacularly and drop them on the mat at my feet. I can almost hear him shaking his head as he leans his arm on the open window.

"Seriously, man, I know that faggy shit about being King to Hummel's Queen sucked, but-"

"Will you ever stop with that?" My hands clench around my keys when I straighten up, and it takes more willpower than I thought I had to keep from aiming that same fist at his face. Remember your progress, Dave...

"Shit, _really_man? I thought all this 'bully whips' bullshit was just so you and Santana-bitch could take Prom King and Queen."

"Well, it wasn't," I snap. I keep my eyes off him when I say it, and this time manage to get the key into the ignition without a problem. "I'm done with that shit, Z. It's not who I want to be, and it's definitely not who I _am_." My hands curl around the wheel as I turn to look at him, if only to keep myself from doing something stupid with them. "I'm not gonna try to make you stop thinking it, but would you at least just not say it around me anymore?

Z just stares at me for a minute before he finally laughs and steps back from my truck window, wearing that same smile he always wore after a particularly 'good' slushying. "Sure, dude. You just let me know when _Sa_tana lets you have your balls back, 'lright?"

I guess it's payback for last night that it's my turn to stare blankly back at him while he turns and walks away. Certainly not the reaction I'd expected, but at the moment, I'm not really in a mood to complain about that. I'll take what I can get at this point, even if that means ignoring a low blow like that one.

My hangover has finally started to ease, making the drive to the gas station much less annoying than the trip out to the strip had been. Of course, it hadn't eased enough to knock that pizza off my list, and as I went inside to pay and grab a slice, my stomach was making a few more suggestions. I drop more than fifty bucks between the gas and junk food, and my arms are too busy juggling the plastic bag and my wallet as I try to close it for me to reach my phone when it buzzes in my pocket.

"Damn, give a guy a minute to respond, would you?" I mutter when it vibrates again a moment later, just as I'm opening the driver's side door and tossing my bag into the empty passenger seat. The display on my phone flashes at me as I whip it out of my pocket, flipping it open while I slide into the seat and yank the door shut behind me.

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><p><strong>Karofsky?<strong>

* * *

><p>Unknown number. Considering how last night went, that doesn't give me much hope about how this could go. I flip to the second message and frown at the same number showing as the sender.<p>

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><p><strong>David?<strong>

* * *

><p>Outside of the team, not many people have my number in the first place, and all of them are keyed into my contacts. Which means either someone's changed their number- which I'm sort of doubting- or someone has been handing mine out to other people. I'm not really in the mood to deal with someone mocking me, and just as I'm about to delete both messages, my phone goes off yet again.<p>

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><p><strong>You there...?<strong>

* * *

><p>Persistent.<p>

I type back _'Wrong number'_ and snap the phone closed, tossing it into the passenger seat beside the bag of food and turn my attention to the road as I pull out of the station. But I hardly have time to turn out into the street before I hear it vibrating against the plastic bag. _Christ_, that is an annoying sound. The light turns red before I can get through, and out of curiosity, I grab the phone again.

* * *

><p><strong>It's Kurt.<strong>

* * *

><p><em><strong>Oh...<strong>_

* * *

><p><strong>Yeah. Do I have the right number now?<strong>

* * *

><p><em><strong>Yeah, but-<strong>_

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><p>Yes, asshole, I see the light has changed, damn.<p>

I balance the opened phone between my ring and middle finger while I put my hand around the wheel again, resisting the urge to throw the finger at the jackass who blared his horn at me. Yes, I should have been paying attention, but really, how much of a hurry are you in?

Apparently I wasn't meant to be texting Kurt back so fast, though, since I don't hit a single red light the rest of my way home. I'm actually surprised when it doesn't vibrate again during that fifteen minutes, with the insistent way that it had gone off back to back earlier. I pull the truck into the drive and kill the ignition before I finish my text, asking how he got my number in the first place. He must have been staring at his damn phone, though, because mine goes off almost immediately, but I ignore it for now. I'm more concerned with getting inside and raiding my fresh stash of junk food before I start feeling any more sick from not eating anything.

My phone buzzes in my pocket two more times on my way to my room, like Kurt has no idea how to type more than one thought in a single message. Or he just hits 'send' too quickly to realize he forgot to add something. Who knows. Either way, when I whip out my phone again and flick it open with one hand- while the other rummages through my bag for that pizza- I've got two three new messages waiting to be read.

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><p><strong>Got it off Santana's phone last night.<strong>

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><p><strong>Don't be mad- she doesn't know. I sort of flipped through her contacts to find it while she was busy vomiting in my bathroom.<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Speaking of... how are you holding up after last night?<strong>

* * *

><p>It's almost like he knows. Then again, it's probably not that much of a leap to assume I didn't have that great of a night, so maybe he's just being concerned. Still, I'd rather not explain how my night- or my morning, for that matter- went, so I skirt the question all together.<p>

* * *

><p><em><strong>Is she alright?<strong>_

* * *

><p>I don't even bother shutting the phone at this point, since he seems to be waiting on my replies. Sure enough, it's not more than a minute before the next text pops up on the screen.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Yeah, once she stopped mumbling 'no me gusta' over and over and gargled half my bottle of Scope, she was fine.<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>You're avoiding my question...<strong>

* * *

><p>So much for not answering him. I could probably ignore him all together, but I'm not sure he'd give up if I did. Actually, I'm pretty sure that he'd just buzz the phone off the hook until I responded to him or turned it off. Whether even <em>that<em>would stop him, though, I don't even know. Kurt is remarkably persistent.

* * *

><p><em><strong>I'm fine.<strong>_

* * *

><p><strong>Liar.<strong>

* * *

><p>His reply comes in only a few seconds before my phone rings, with his number stamped across my screen as the caller. I swallow my mouthful of pizza as quickly as I can, but my voice is still half-muffled when I answer.<p>

"What?"

"Don't 'what' me like you don't know why I'm calling." I roll my eyes while I dig through my bag for the soda I'd grabbed and toss the cap aside once I get the bottle open. Kurt keeps going on while I chug half of it down. "You looked terrible when you ran off last night, did you expect me to just ignore it?"

"Yes," I tell him simply. It takes me a second to relocate the stupid cap, and it sounds obnoxiously loud to me when I start to twist it back on. But hey, flat soda is disgusting. "I appreciate the thought, Kurt, but honestly? Why do you care?"

He's silent for a long moment and I'm just waiting to hear the _click_of him hanging up. I certainly deserve it, given everything that's happened. An apology or two can't really make up for everything I did to him, and as much as I'd like to say we're friends, I think I'm fooling myself more than anything to think it. At best, I think Kurt just pities me...

"I just do."

Not what I was expecting.

"Just listen, Karofsky; I know you aren't out, and maybe you aren't ready to be, but you probably need to talk to _someone_. So if you want to talk, you have my number now..." He sounds awkward, like he isn't sure what else to say. Even though he can't see it, I nod.

"Yeah... Look, I need to go. Things to do, you know?" It sounds like a terrible excuse, even to me, and I'm pretty sure he can hear the lie in my voice.

"Text me if you need me?" he asks. "Or call?..."

The offer brings a smile to my face, but I'm not sure I'm ready to think about why that is. That train of thought isn't going to take me anywhere good, and I don't need more reasons to feel down right now.

"Yeah... if I need you, will."

"Okay."

_God_, he sounds so awkward now. It's understandable, all things considered. But still, it's a little disheartening to realize I make him this uncomfortable. Maybe it would have been better if he hadn't called, just so it wouldn't have been so obvious.

"Thanks, Kurt." I think I stun him into silence for a moment, but I don't wait around to find out for certain. I hang up before he replies- if he was going to at all- and drop the phone onto the mattress. The screen stays lit up for a moment before it goes blank, and I'm so convinced that he wouldn't just let it go that easily that it takes me a few minutes to finally look away.

My pizza isn't as appealing as it was earlier, now; still, I manage to finish the slice before I chuck the cardboard box in the general direction of the trash can. It misses and bounces off the rim of the can, but for the moment I'm too lazy to care. Instead, I throw myself back onto my bed and start rummaging through the bag from the gas station again, shifting through the snack-bags of chips and jerky to dig out one of the candy bars buried at the very bottom.

It crosses my mind, for a second, that talking to Kurt probably would be a lot healthier, physically and mentally, than binging on junk food for the rest of the day. But really, shit with him is fucked up enough as it is, I don't really think I need to make it worse.

Besides, I don't think Kurt really gets it, where I'm concerned.

He's always sort of stuck out, and even when things were really bad on the bullying front, he was a lot more concerned with trying not to let me get to him than-...

_Damn it._

How do chicks do that 'chocolate makes everything better' shit? I mean, it tasted great for a minute, but now that my mood's gone south? Well, the chocolate doesn't really help.

God, I was such a dick to him.

I keep glancing at my phone, torn between grabbing it to text Kurt and chucking it across the room to keep from doing exactly that. But what would I even say to him at this point? 'Hey, I was just thinking about what a prick I was to you, so now I feel like shit... wanna help me feel better?' seems like it wouldn't be the best of openers. And I don't really deserve comfort over that shit.

No matter how much self-hating bullshit I have to work through, it's not as bad as what he had to put up with from me. It's really a wonder that he's put up with me like this, after all that. I mean, I know it's only pity, but...

Fuck it.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Kurt?<strong>_

* * *

><p>He takes a little longer to respond than he did earlier, but it's still like he dived for his phone the second that it went off.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Yeah?<strong>

* * *

><p><em><strong>Thanks for last night... and for checking up on me today... I-<strong>_

* * *

><p>I stop for a minute to secondquess myself, and shake my head as I delete the last bit.<p>

* * *

><p><em><strong>Just... thanks.<strong>_

* * *

><p><strong>You're welcome, David.<strong>

* * *

><p>It's one of my lucky days, I guess, and I manage to get my head into my distraction, unlike last night when I tried. Maybe the difference is in my game of choice- Call of Duty <em>is<em>a bit more engrossing than Halo- but whatever it is, it works. Better than I expected, actually, because it takes my dad yelling up the stairs for me to get my ass down to the kitchen for dinner to snap me out of the game for the first time in about six hours.

I'm not in much of a mood to be social with the family, but I go downstairs anyway, if just to avoid the fight.

It's not that I have anything against my family. Hell, mom and dad are pretty great in the long run. But all that bullying shit with Kurt put me on some pretty shaky ground with them, and things have been a little strained. I like to think they've moved past it now, but there's no way to know without asking, and that would be just a little too much for me. We're not the sort of family that does those deep, emotional, 'sharing' kinds of conversations.

At least the food is good. The conversation turns a little awkward when mom thinks to ask about last night, but someone must have been smiling down on me, because the phone rings and saves me. After that, it's mostly the usual Sunday evening talk between mom and dad about whatever they read in the morning paper, while I tune them out completely.

My mind finds its way back to the night before, though, and I beat a quick escape from the table as soon as my plate is empty. I think they're used to me not hanging around these days, because neither of them seems to notice.

I start eying the Xbox again as soon as I secure myself in my room, wondering if it would even be half as effective as a distraction now. It's probably worth the shot, but after spending most of the afternoon playing the damn thing, it's actually much less appealing. Maybe that's just because my back hurts now from being hunched over while I played, but either way, more game time doesn't sound like a good idea.

I never thought I'd wish I actually had some homework to do, but tonight I am. At least that would give me something else to focus on, and really, almost any distraction would be a welcome one right now. Without one, I resign myself to staring at the ceiling for a while, instead. The screen on my phone flashing stops me short of throwing myself down onto my bed, though, and I don't know if I should be quite so happy to see Kurt's number on the text message that pops up.

I should probably add him into my contacts...

* * *

><p><strong>Are you busy?<strong>

* * *

><p>Sent almost twenty minutes ago. I'm not sure if it should be encouraging or worrisome that he didn't text again since that last one. Maybe it wasn't as urgent as he thought checking up on me should be, but I don't know. Either way, it does make me worry at least a little.<p>

* * *

><p><em><strong>Not really, did you need something?<strong>_

* * *

><p><strong>Just some company... nevermind, you're busy<strong>

* * *

><p>He texted <em>me <em>for this? It must be bad if his go-to wasn't fucking buckboy or someone from the Glee club.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Where are you?<strong>_

* * *

><p>It takes a few more minutes to get it out of him, because he tries to brush me off like-... Well, like I do to people, when I want to talk but don't know how. Within five minutes of him finally telling me where he's at, though, I'm pulling the truck out of the driveway to go see him. Whatever's going on with him seems to really be bothering him; even from his text messages, I can see that much.<p>

The Navigator is parked at the far edge of the lot near the football field, and I can hear a dull roar of music rumbling from inside the car as I pull up beside it. Kurt doesn't seem to notice as I get out of the truck, and more surprising yet, he's not even singing along to whatever that is that's blaring from his speakers. He just keeps staring at his cellphone in his hand when I slam the truck door, and it takes me rapping my knuckles loudly against the passenger window of his car to tear his attention away from it.

Kurt kills the ignition and steps out, stuffing his phone into his pocket while he does. He looks completely drained as he steps around and perches himself on the hood of car, flashing me a smile that's not as steady as he probably thinks it is. I'm not really sure what to do, so I hover awkwardly beside the hood of his car and watch him for a moment, trying to figure out what to say.

"You look like hell, Fancy..."

I cringe after it comes out, realizing that wasn't the best thing I could have said. But Kurt doesn't seem to care, because he just shrugs. Even I know that's a bad sign. I sit myself on the hood of his car with as much space between us as I can manage and frown as he just keeps staring at his hands.

"What happened, Kurt?"

He's silent for a long time- or maybe it was only a few seconds- before he finally starts to speak. The dry quality to his voice makes me look closer at him, and I finally see the faint puffiness around his eyes. _Shit_, he's been crying...

"Something stupid," he mutters, turning his hand over like he's examining his nails. He goes silent again for a while, and I start to wonder whether or not to push him when he shifts and turns himself toward me. "Why did you come out?" I'm not sure whether he sounds suspicious or just uncertain, but it still sort of rubs me the wrong way.

"Did you not want me here, then?" I ask, and push myself off the hood of his car. His expression goes straight to apologetic, which is a little surprising, but at this point, I'm just beyond being able to care. _He_ texted _me_to start with, didn't he? My response startles him or something, because for a second, Kurt just gapes at me, and all I can do is shake my head and turn back toward my truck.

"No, David, wait..."

"Why?" I turn toward him again and Kurt is much closer than I thought he would be. He must have actually flung himself across the hood of the car or something, because he's standing _right there_, and I'm mad and he's looking at me so intently, and all I can think of is that damn locker room, and _fuck_.

I don't realize until my back hits the door of my truck that I moved, and Kurt looks so fucking _hurt_ by it. "You don't want me here anyway, do you?" I'm not even sure what I want him to tell me anymore, but I need to buy myself a minute. Just _one_ to let me think, but he just steps closer again with this _look_that's so uncertain and vulnerable and angry all at once.

"I don't know."

All those times I've seen a silence described as 'deafening', I've always had a little, internal laugh because it just sounds so freaking_stupid_; except now I see that it isn't. At least, not all of the time. There's no other word I can think of to describe the silence that settles around us after Kurt says that, and I'm actually surprise that my mouth isn't hanging open to gape at him like some sort of fish.

What does that even mean, he 'doesn't know'?

"What happened?" It's all I can think of to ask now, because I'm too afraid to actually dig any deeper on the subject of him wanting me anywhere near him, so it seems like the safest option. At least he's stopped closing the distance between us, because I don't know where else I could retreat without jumping into the truck. For some reason, that doesn't sound like it would be the best approach anyway, after the way he looked when I only _stepped_away from him.

At least that intensity is gone, but Kurt's expression drops again, back to that look of distant sadness he's had since he got out of his car. I don't think I'm really thinking it through as I step forward, but my hands find their way onto his shoulders and his face is tilted up to look at me when I finally realize that I've moved.

"I know I'm probably not your first choice to talk to about shit, Kurt, but... I mean... you _can_talk to me." It comes out awkward as hell, and there's no way Kurt doesn't notice that, because even despite that sadness in his eyes, he smiles, and then he laughs and I don't know whether I should be happy that I cheered him up or feel like hell for being so damn uncomfortable.

I drop my hands from his shoulders, certain he's going to step back from me. Instead, he takes a small shuffle forward until he's almost pressed against my chest, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I wonder if it would be a bad idea to wrap my arms around him. I'm sure the answer is yes, so my arms stay at my sides, but it's tempting and for a second, his expression looks like the gesture wouldn't be entirely unwelcome.

"It's not that I don't want you here," he finally says, still looking up at me with this _look_that I just can't place. Before I can do something stupid to ruin whatever sort of friendship it is we have, I move away from him to pace back toward his car and stuff my hands into my pockets. He sighs at my back and I hear his shoes scuff on the asphalt. "You don't have to stay if you don't want to."

Maybe I want to...

"I know." I sit myself on the hood of his car again and stare out in the direction of the football field. I know what it is I'm feeling when I look at him right now- what I felt when we were talking earlier- and that freaks me out too much to deal with at the moment. I have no right to want what I do from him. "So what's up, Fancy?" I ask, shooting a glance at him from the corner of my eye. "Something's bothering you."

"Blaine," Kurt sighs, still scuffing the toe of his shoe against the asphalt. That alone tells me he's not completely himself, because Kurt would never willingly mark up his shoes like that. He perches himself on the hood of the car, closer to me than I expected, and I can't help watching him from the corner of my eyes. He props his elbows on his knees and drops his head into his hands without a sound. "He thinks I have some... _things_to work out, and broke up with me last night."

Well, that answers my first question, but it also raises several more.

"Oh... I'm sorry, Kurt."

He shrugs and focuses on the ground rather than look at me. "Thanks, but it's actually sort of... fine. He's right, anyway." Kurt seems to notice me watching him in confusion, because he finally turns to look back at me and flashes a nervous smile. "I wanted to be with him before, but now-" His voice trails off and he turns away again to stare out toward the football field. "I'm not so sure, anymore."

"Why not?" The question slips out before I can stop myself, because really, I knew Kurt was falling over this guy the first time I saw the two of them together. Hell, every time they've been in the same room as me, I've seen it in his expression. He was so crazy about him, how could he just be _okay_with buckboy calling off their relationship like that? Surprisingly, Kurt doesn't seem to mind that I asked, although he does look a little more nervous now than he did before.

Kurt hesitates for a long time, just staring off at one of the goal posts like it's helping him form an answer, but I don't want to push so I just wait him out. When he finally answers, he doesn't look at me, just keeps on staring straight ahead.

"I think I've been developing feelings for someone else, lately."

_Great_.

I know I'm not his type, and all that- he's already said it once- and even if I was, I'd have no right to try winning him over for... a whole shitload of reasons. But that doesn't make it much easier to hear. I could ignore buckboy and his fucking private school, perfect voice, shiny-haired bullshit, but having to actually listen to Kurt outright say he's chasing after someone else? That's a harder pill to swallow, because now I have to actually hear it.

I'm not the right person for him to be talking to about this, and I know it. I push myself off the hood of the car and take off walking in the direction of the football field, fisting my hands inside my pockets.

"David?"

Ignore him, Dave. Don't turn around. Don't do something stupid to him again...

"Where are you going?"

_Fuck_, of course he follows me. He can't just leave me to lick my wounds in peace.

"_David!_I am talking to you!" Kurt's hand grabs my shoulder, and even though he's smaller and I could easily shrug him off and keep on walking, I give in when he tries to turn me around. He looks somewhere between hurt and pissed, and I have a hard time imagining that look isn't reflected on my own face.

"What?"

"'What'? '_What_'?" Forget hurt, now he just looks pissed, and again, I can't think of anything but that damn locker room that day he finally chased after me. And, as though that look isn't enough, Kurt steps closer to me and jabs his finger at my chest as he looks up at me, raising his chin like it makes him a little taller and narrowing his eyes.

"_What_ is your problem?" he snaps, taking a step forward when I take a startled step back. That finger keeps jabbing into my chest as though he's trying to poke _through_ it. "I spent all afternoon trying to work up the nerve to talk to you about this and you just walk away without saying anything? Well I'll tell you 'what', David, this was _not_exactly easy for me, and I'm not going to let you just walk off without hearing what I'm trying to say to you!"

He's rambling, and I don't think he realizes it. And if he does, I have to wonder whether he has any idea what he's saying any more, because half my brain follows it and wants to think one thing, while the other tries to tell me that I'm wrong. Kurt can't be telling me what I think he is, because that makes no fucking sense. He's already told me once, I don't need to hear it again; I'm not his type.

"Out with it then, Fancy. What are you getting it?" I know the edge in my voice isn't exactly encouraging; it's defensive and it's full of warning and none of the friendliness I've been able to actually let out around him lately. I feel like the asshole who pushed him into lockers again, rather than the half-friend and reformed bully that he at least speaks to in the hallways now.

Kurt doesn't seem to like my tone, either, because his face shuts down until all I can think is that he's pissed, and maybe for once, he'll lash out at me like I used to do with him. He looks like he could do it, right now, but I can't bring myself to step back just in case. If he hits me, well... I deserve it, don't I?

"What do you think, Karofsky?"

I forget how to breath when Kurt moves, closing the short distance between us to close his mouth over mine, rather than slug me. His hands are on either side of my face, holding me like he's terrified I'm going to move; or maybe he just doesn't know where else to put them right now. My own slip out of my pockets, but I can't bring myself to touch him, because I don't know if I should. I'm half terrified that this is all a dream, and even if it isn't, maybe it's just a desperate move to rebound from fucking buckboy.

That thought gets me moving and I manage to step away from Kurt, hoping the flashes of anger and pain don't show in my eyes when he looks back at me.

"I'm not going to be your rebound boy, Fancy."

Kurt's attractive as hell when he gets angry, and it's hard not to want to grab him and kiss him again when he's glaring at me like this. But I learned my lesson about that the first time; maybe that's why it's so hard to believe that this just happened.

"You think _that's_what this is about?" He closes the gap between us again, and this time, I'm not sure if he looks upset or predatory because he smiles at me in this way I've never seen before.

I probably shouldn't like it as much as I do, either.

"Do you want to know why Blaine broke up with me? He thought I had a thing for you, because I talked about you 'too much'. And after you apologized, even when I was just talking about how you and Santana just needed to get it out and over with, my focus was always on _you_, rather than her, or the self-inflicted injustice of staying in the closet."

"Wait... You _know_about Santana?"

Really, Dave? Of all the points to focus on, you pick that one?

"Of course I know," Kurt scoffs, and he gets this smug expression that probably would infuriate most other people, but it just makes me want to kiss him. _Fuck_. "She might be able to fool all the straight boys, but I know a look of longing when I see it, and hers is never aimed at guys. But that's not the point, David, and you know it..."

I realize that I'm still not breathing right as Kurt steps up to me, and his hand fists in my jacket to keep me from moving again. But I don't think I could if I wanted to, right now, because this shit is like he's been reading a secret diary that I don't actually keep; pulled everything straight out of my own dreams, and maybe more than one recent fantasy. Not that I'm ready to admit to that out loud just yet.

"Last night was the last straw to him, because I couldn't just let you walk out of prom like that. I _had_to follow you, and something in the way I looked at you when you walked off the football field said everything to him."

Somehow, I manage to swallow and force my voice to work, because I need to ask the question that's burning in my mind. I need to know this isn't some twisted form of revenge or just a stupid convenience thing.

"What about you?" I finally ask, ignoring the nervous quality of my voice. "Is this just because he says it, Kurt? Or do you really..." I can't bring myself to say it; it's too impossible, or maybe I'm just too much of a coward. Too afraid to hear him tell me 'no'. But Kurt is too determined to be stopped by something like that, because he moves his other hand to my jacket now, so that he's grabbing me with both.

"Would I have kissed you if I didn't feel something, David?"

Words completely fail me now, but I still hear the answer, loud and clear, in the back part of my mind. My hands shake as I try to move them, to reach for him, and even though I still can't convince myself that it's alright to touch him yet, Kurt leans in closer to me again. He doesn't move as quickly this time around, apparently satisfied that I'm not going to run now that I know it's coming, and he's right.

I can't say if I'd move for anything right now.


End file.
